


Glacier

by Sparcck



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2004 World Junior Championships, 2017-2018 NHL Season, Crush at First Sight, Falling In Love, Growing Up, I Thought I Was Done With My MAF Feelings, Idiots in Love, M/M, Pittsburgh Penguins, Second Chances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-18 23:20:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13110633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparcck/pseuds/Sparcck
Summary: It was Sidney's first trip outside North America; being so far away from his usual routines, the unreality of being on a completely different continent, made Sidney feel bigger, lit up from the inside, like everyone would be able to see through his skin if they looked.And Marc looked. He was always looking. Sidney knew because he was always looking back.





	Glacier

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AetherSeer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AetherSeer/gifts).



> Thank you so much to [Snick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snickfic) for her massively insightful and no nonsense editing/hand-holding/yelling about feelings. Without her, it would have been a half-coherent mess of emotions, like, way more than it is now. Snick, you are brilliant. And thanks to the S-Chat for listening to me go on about this specifically and MAF in general forever and ever, and cheering me on.
> 
> Thanks as always to K. Hockey wouldn't be much without you.

The desert at night is colder than Sidney expected, and his body does a full-on shudder when the air hits him in the face as he steps off the plane in Vegas. A beam of light shoots up from the Strip, disappearing into the light pollution above them.  
  
It had seemed like a good idea to get in early, but now that they're here, a little frisson of anxiety zings through Sidney's belly. The road has always been comforting: the rigid routine of it, cities with restaurants he's been to dozens of times, the same hotels with the same white-sheeted beds and arenas with ice that he's known for a decade.  
  
But Vegas is alien, especially at night, the view dropping off into blackness past the edge of the tarmac's klieg lights in one direction, in the other the intense glow of the city with a random pattern of flashing lights coming from everywhere and nowhere.  
  
Behind him, Geno is grumbling in Russian.  
  
"There's a Shake Shack, like, right down the block from our hotel," Sidney says while they're waiting for their bags to come off the plane. "You wanna go?"  
  
"Yeah, of course," Geno says, his voice muffled into the buttoned and turned-up collar of his coat. "You see Flower tonight?"  
  
Sidney coughs, crosses his arms and sticks his hands into his armpits; he had packed his overcoat instead of wearing it for some reason and the wind cuts right through the fine wool of his suit. "No, no. Tomorrow night."  
  
Geno hums.  
  
Sidney narrows his eyes. "What?"  
  
Geno turtles his shoulders up theatrically. "What."  
  
Their bags come by and Sidney snags his to check that everything is as it should be. At the other bus, the kids are all jostling to cram their stuff into the hold. Neither Rusty nor Guentz have overcoats, either, Jake chirping everyone not newly from Minnesota about the east coast thinning out their blood.  
  
"Tanger say they do Frenchie dinner tomorrow night," Geno says casually and Sidney cracks his jaw to the side to loosen the ligaments there.  
  
"I'm his plus one, I guess."  
  
Geno ducks under the open hatch and arranges his bag just so, then grabs Sidney's bag from him and does the same. "Thought you and Flower go to dinner alone, like always."  
  
Sidney tries not to visibly bristle as they board, though from Geno's raised eyebrow he assumes he didn't quite get there. "It's not like always," he says and sits in his usual row, on the aisle.  
  
Geno swings himself into the seat behind Sidney, nodding at Horny and Hags as they pass. "Maybe good that it's different."  
  
Sidney struggles to put into words how much he doesn't want to have this conversation, feeling suddenly and strangely raw. "Can we just drop it please?"  
  
 Geno puts his face over the headrest, his gusty sigh stirring the hair above Sidney's ear. "Sure, Sid. You still buy me burger?"  
  
Sidney barks out a laugh. "I never said I would in the first place."  
  
Geno waves a hand and sinks back into his seat. "Technicality," he says, a word he learned early, from Flower, who lived the spaces between technicalities.  
  
Still lives. Just. Somewhere Sidney doesn't now.  
  
"Cheese fries, too," Geno says, and Sidney can almost hear him pulling his hat down low over his ears as they pull onto the freeway. "New city, new routine, yes?"  
  
Sidney looks out the window, letting his eyes play over what he's able to see, memorizing the strange, looming shape the mountains make against the ambient light in the sky. "Cheese fries it is." 

 

+

 

"They interview me today for your movie," was the first thing Marc ever said to him, as they got kitted up for their first practice skate at World Juniors Selection Camp. He was standing in front of Sidney's stall, wearing his scuffed-up Pittsburgh Yellow pads and holding his mask against his hip, brand new and shiny black, with a Team Canada logo emblazoned on the front. He was smiling, his face open and friendly.  
  
Sidney's face wanted to smile back.  
  
"Oh." Sidney laughed a little, shoving his foot into his skate. "No, it's not a movie."  
  
"No?" Fleury cocked his head a little. "Cameras follow you around for no reason?"  
  
Sidney felt his cheeks heat up. "No, but it's not-- it's for a documentary."  
  
Fleury pursed his lips and pulled his eyebrows together. "This feels like...how do you say in English, not much difference, just trying to make it seem like there is for, ah, _fausse modestie_."  
  
"I'm not--" Sidney stopped and narrowed his eyes, seeing the trap he was in. "I'm not trying to brag."  
  
"Of course." Fleury lifted one eyebrow. "I read this in many places: The Next One, a nice Canadian boy you want to take home to _Mère_."  
  
Sidney rolled his eyes and felt that familiar cold knot in his stomach, wondering if this was how it would start with this team. Fleury was friends with everyone; he already had NHL ice time. One track of Sidney's mind started spooling it out, revising the Go/No Go columns he had already sorted his teammates into.  
  
"I'm not the Next One," he muttered, pulling the laces on his right skate viciously tight.  
  
"Probably not. If you ever get a puck past me? Maybe."  
  
Sidney glanced up and Fleury was smirking at him, his wide mouth curled almost in on itself in satisfaction.  
  
"You're still young. It's good for you to have something to look forward to," Fleury went on smugly, in French, and Sidney laughed disbelievingly.  
  
"Fuck you," Sidney said, kicking at Fleury's shin with his skate.  
  
Fleury danced back, light on his skates. "Keep you head up, Crosby," he teased, and fitted his mask over the crown of his head.  
  
Sidney narrowed his eyes at him, and Fleury grabbed his stick by the door. "I say only nice things about you in your movie, don't worry."  
  
"It's not a movie!" Sidney called after him as he disappeared towards the ice, and Fleury's infectious giggle drifted back towards him.  
  
Fleury shut him down three times during that morning's scrimmage, called him a goat-fucker in French, and gave him a quick shot to the back of his left knee when Sidney tried to screen him for Getzlaf's rebound attempt. He threw himself down next to Sidney's stall afterwards in nothing but his leg pads, stripped to the waist, as Sidney struggled with his right skate lace.  
  
"Don't worry," he said in French, low and teasing, "It's character-building."  
  
Sidney couldn't really tell what his emotions were doing; his hands were shaking with adrenaline and Fleury's shitty smirk was making Sidney's toes curl. Andy had been telling him for three years that he had to learn to keep his emotions in check, and he knew it was even more important for his first time on a national stage, but his heart pumped competitive rage through his veins instead of blood. He defaulted to mean, mad at Fleury for his quick glove and the way his thick silver chain fell across his collarbones. "The way your season's going, I guess you don't need any more of that, huh?"  
  
Fleury blinked at him and Sidney looked back at his skate and the fucking knotted lace, his lips clamped tight, unwilling to take it back.  
  
"Oh my god," Fleury breathed and Sidney swallowed hard. "You're an asshole."  
  
Sidney shrugged, and Fleury slid an arm around Sidney's shoulders to give him a little shake. When Sidney looked up, Fleury was grinning at him, almost marveling. "You're a fucking asshole!"  
  
"So are you," Sidney pointed out, and Fleury laughed.  
  
"Yes, of course I fucking am! Oh, this is great. Hey!" He raised his voice to the room and a few guys turned to look at them. His arm was still around Sidney's shoulders, warm and sweaty. "We are going out tonight. Crosby's buying."  
  
"Crosby's sixteen, he can't buy shit," said Gorges, in a tone that Sidney recognized as reasonably deniable scorn.  
  
Sidney forced his shoulders to stay loose.  
  
"Then I guess it's on you, to pay us all back for your shitty backcheck," Fleury drawled. There was some laughter, Burns giving Gorges a facewash as he headed to the changeroom.  
  
"You _were_ pretty awful today," Burns said over his shoulder, and someone turned the music back up.  
  
Fleury grinned and squeezed the back of Sidney's neck, yelling along with the music, "Gonna party like it's your birthday!"  
  
Sidney shoved him off the edge of the bench, and Fleury turned and waddled backwards. "Don't give a fuck," he yelled, raising his eyebrows pointedly, "it's not your birthday!"  
  
"Shut up!" Burns yelled from the change room.  
  
Sidney could feel that his face was hot and knew his whole body was probably lobster red but he was laughing so hard he didn't care. Jeff Carter stopped by his stall as he swung his bag up onto his shoulder.  
  
"I'll make sure you get your free booze, Croz," he said.  
  
"You can't drink, either!"  
  
"Yeah, but I don't look like a fetus." And he winked and held out a fist. Sidney bumped it, laughing. Across the room, Fleury crammed a snapback on his head backwards, giggling helplessly at something Max Talbot was saying.  
  
Sidney shook his head, something loose and warm curling in his chest, and when he went back to his skate, the lace came unknotted right away.  
  
They went out to a bar Carts knew that would overlook proper ID in the name of hockey. Sidney nursed a beer for most the night, waving off the shots Getzlaf kept buying them. He danced terribly with Max and two girls that Max somehow convinced to join them on the dancefloor, played a game of pool with Carts, Mike Richards, and Fleury, then chugged another beer right before they left, under Tambellini's watchful eye.  
  
The cold outside the bar was a slap in the face, and Sidney sweated into the new wool coat his mother had bought him two weeks ago. They huddled around a cab stand, and Tambellini kept looking at him while Getzlaf gesticulated about something, the smile on his face not quite a smile.  
  
Fleury bumped his shoulder. "Don't worry about them, eh?"  
  
"I'm not worried," Sidney replied in French.  
  
"Good." He bumped Sidney's shoulder again with his own, almost knocking him down. "You wanna help me prank them?"  
  
Sidney barked out a laugh and screwed up his face. "I don't think I'm very good at pranking."  
  
Fleury grinned. "Good thing you got me, then, no?"  
  
He didn't need much help; Sidney was as shocked as Tambellini was when Tambellini pulled his helmet down off the shelf above his stall the next morning at practice and got a face full of water from a red plastic cup hidden under it. He grabbed it as it bounced off his chest and crushed it in his fist. "The fuck!"  
  
"Wakey wakey," Burnsie said and laughed all the way to the ice, where Fleury and a few other guys had gotten a jump on things early. Tambellini threw the cup towards the trash, missed, and grabbed a towel to mop at his face as he followed Burns out the door.  
  
Sidney sat looking at the cup next to the bin for a second. He flexed his fingers, took a breath, and forced himself to walk out the door.  
  
Max hit the ice a few minutes later, as Sidney did figure eights with the puck across the logo in the ice. "You and the Flower are getting along, eh?" he said, rocking back and forth on his skates.  
  
Sidney glanced at him; Max was tracking the puck with his eyes. "I guess. He's..." Sidney wasn't even really sure what he wanted to say before he started talking, "uh..."  
  
Max darted in and snatched the puck off Sidney's stick, scooped it off the ice and bounced it three times before dropping it to step on it. "He really is," he said, and winked before flipping the puck in the air.  
  
Sidney caught it on his stick and weighed it for a second, before flipping it back. Behind Max's shoulder, Fleury was working over his crease with quick, neat movements of his blades. "Been kind of a rough season for the Pens."  
  
Max tapped the puck with his stick, let it bounce off his knee, and grabbed it again on the blade of his stick before it hit the ice. "He's tough, it's why they loaned him to us. Gotta be tough, Sid. You are, right?" He faked to the left with it, then let it arc right.  
  
Sidney moved quick, caught it and let it bounce, then bounced it off his skate, up to his knee, and back onto his stick.  
  
Max grinned. "See?"  
  
Sidney rolled his eyes and dropped the puck. "You're not, like, as wise and shit as you think you are."  
  
Max pushed off towards him. "Hey, respect your elders."  
  
Sidney snorted, tapped the puck in a triangle between his skates and his stick while Max lazily tried to bat it away. They scuffled for a minute, and Sidney felt his heart pick up, felt his blood heat.  
  
"Fuck," he muttered, as Max tried to knock him off the puck with a hip check. Sidney planted his skates and shoved his shoulder into Max's chest, giving himself the room to turn around and scrape the puck out into center ice. Max darted after it, but Sidney got there first, and he let his momentum carry him toward the net, where Fleury was methodically clearing away slush.  
  
" _Fais gaffe!_ " Max yelled, laughing, and Fleury looked up just as Sid came in, trying to edge the puck around Fleury's right skate. Fleury sprawled out, sweeping his stick in an arc. The puck skittered around the corner and behind the net and Sidney had to hop over the blade of his stick to avoid biting it.  
  
Sidney plowed up snow when he stopped, snapping for breath. "Unfair," he huffed.  
  
"Go cry to the refs about it," Fleury said primly but Sidney could see he was smiling to himself behind his mask when he went back to clearing the shavings out of his crease.  
  
Two days later, Sidney scored twice on Fleury during their afternoon scrimmage: the exact same backhand, roofed glove-side both times. Fleury's face was murderous afterward, his mouth scrunching up and almost disappearing. He had paused for a second beside the bench, and Sidney was sure he was about to break his stick. But he saw Fleury's shoulders go up, slow, and then down, and then Fleury went on into the locker room, where he sat in all his pads, not speaking, as Max chattered away at him in French.  
  
Sidney bent to pick the tape off his socks. He was balling it up between his palms when Fleury called his name, and he looked up just in time to catch a roll of tape Fleury had thrown him. Fleury was standing at the door, still all kitted up, his cheeks blotchy. "Let's go," he said flatly and turned to walk towards the ice.  
  
Sidney looked at the tape in his hands, then over at Max.  
  
Max shrugged. "Better you than me," he said, stuffing his undershirt into his laundry bag.  
  
Sidney tore off a piece of tape and started rewrapping his shins.  
  
They practiced for a half hour, though Fleury tried to call it early when the Sidney's camera crew caught on tape a poke check that sent the puck up and over Sidney's shoulder. "No way," Sidney laughed, looping around the back of the net and snowing Fleury in his crease. "No, you dragged me out here, we're going until I'm done now."  
  
Fleury waggled his considerable eyebrows. "So bossy."  
  
Sidney gently checked him and they shoved each other back and forth as best they could, Fleury's hands knotted in the neck of Sidney's sweater, until Fleury's skates went out from under him because they were giggling too hard.  
  
"Hey," Fleury said panting, his whole body loose and easy in a way it hadn't been a half hour earlier. "Thanks."  
  
"You can thank me after you stop that same shot five more times," Sidney said and shoved off to snag another puck from the bucket.  
  
"Aye aye, Cap!" Fleury called and Sidney's face hurt from smiling.  
  
Everyone's favorite narrative, Sidney knew, starting when he hit puberty, was the gulf between his emotional maturity and his hockey proficiency, his ability to say the right thing on camera and his seeming complete lack of social skills off the ice. And yeah, it was true that he mostly didn't have much interest in maintaining casual friendships; but he had the friends that he had worked hard to make and his sister and he treated his relationship with them the same way he treated hockey, something you had to work at to make better.  
  
But it didn't happen like that with Fleury. It was more like a week after they met, Sidney woke up and looked around and the landscape of their relationship was totally different even though he had watched it change right in front of his eyes: the mix of French and English Fleury used to talk to him, a language just for them when they inevitably found themselves sitting next to each other at team dinners; his big, cool hand finding the edge of Sidney's chest protector and pressing against his ribs when they scuffled during scrimmages; the secret smile that curled up the edges of Fleury's mouth when they caught each other's eye in the room or on the ice.  
  
The day before they flew to Finland and about 30 seconds after they took the team photo, Fleury got Sidney in the face with a shaving-cream towel. "Fu--Jeez," Sidney sputtered, remembering at the last second that the cameras were still there, there were always fucking cameras there.  
  
"It's a rite of passage," Fleury said, bumping up against his hip, "you officially made it."  
  
"Thanks, Fleury," Sidney said drily, wiping shaving cream out of his mouth.  
  
Fleury's dark eyes crinkled at the corners. "I think by now you can call me Marc, eh," he said in French and reached up to run a finger around the shell of Sidney's ear.  
  
Sidney's mouth went dry and Fleury -- Marc -- grinned, wiping the shaving cream he had gathered from his ear across Sidney's forehead.    
  
"Save me a spot on the plane tomorrow," Marc said, and skated away backwards, his tongue caught between his big, white teeth.  
  
"Yeah," Sidney said, grinning back, his heart pounding, "for sure."

 

+

 

It was Sidney's first trip outside North America; being so far away from his usual routines, the unreality of being on a completely different continent, made Sidney feel bigger, lit up from the inside, like everyone would be able to see through his skin if they looked.  
  
And Marc looked. He was always looking. Sidney knew because he was always looking back.  
  
They quickly made a new routine, Marc showing up at Sidney's room with coffee first thing in the morning, Sidney's light and so sugary it might rot his teeth before they could be knocked out: perfect. They lingered on the ice after practice, sometimes with Max, sometimes not, running their own version of shoot-out drills, Marc scooping every puck Sidney got past him down the ice to try for an empty netter.  
  
"One day," Marc said as they changed, the day before their first game, when just the two of them were left in the locker room. "I want my name on the list of goalies with a goal."  
  
"And the Cup," Sidney teased, distance making him bold, something he would never joke about back home.  
  
"Of course," Marc said, smiling his secret smile and a thrill went through Sidney at how forbidden it felt, to talk about winning so matter of factly.  
  
Marc was like no goalie Sidney had ever played with, his personality magnified ten times during real gameplay. He played the puck too much, he liked to park himself at the top of his crease, his movements seemed completely at random and way too close to the wrong side of too late. He was loud, he was a little too free with his stick in a scrum, he laughed and cursed equally, swinging wildly between carefree and murderous.  
  
To have that focused on him off the ice made Sidney feel giddy. He knew a version of this feeling; he'd felt it before, in Shattuck, with Jack when they first met, the weeks of pretending they wouldn't before they finally did. But this, the spiral of anticipation and uncertainty and back again that went all the way from the beat of his heart in his throat to the soft part of his gut that ached when he looked at Marc, or caught Marc looking at him; this felt different, felt bigger.  
  
Sidney tried to hide it, but it was unwieldy, and he didn't really want to.  
  
The night before their first game was Christmas, and they all crammed into Getzlaf and Gorges' room. Someone had procured two bottles of what Sidney assumed was Finnish booze, one violently pink and one black and almost viscous when Getzlaf poured it into a paper bathroom cup, a stack of which had been lifted from housekeeping earlier in the day.  
  
'To Croz," he said. "Hockey's future savior." He shoved the cup into Sidney's hand. "I'm sure he'll show us all his moves tomorrow and blow us all away."  
  
Sidney rolled his eyes and held the cup up. This kind of attention he was used to at least. "You're welcome, Getzy. I know you need all the help you can get." And he knocked it back.  
  
It burned all the way down, tasting like Jaeger only worse, sour and salty and thick. He shook the cup at Getzlaf who laughed a little and refilled it.  
  
"Attaway, Croz," Carts called, sitting shoulder to shoulder with Richie next to the desk, pouring them both drinks from the pink bottle. Sitting on the windowsill, Marc raised his own cup and his eyebrows and Sidney felt his chest puff out. They both shot their cups.  
  
They all managed to stay on the safe side of tipsy, metabolism and adrenaline burning the booze off quick. At some point, Sidney found himself trying to get into the bathroom and not understanding why the handle wouldn't turn. Someone swore in French and the door opened to Marc's face, annoyance quickly dissolving into laugher.  
  
"Christ, Sidney," he said, "You forget what locks mean?"  
  
Sidney smiled at him, dopily, he knew, but he couldn't help himself. "We're gonna win tomorrow," he stage whispered, and Marc's smile went sharp and smug.  
  
"Fuck yes," he said and ruffled Sidney's hair.  
  
Behind them, someone, probably Burnsie, yelled, "Mistletoe!"  
  
Sidney looked up; someone, probably Burnsie, had taped a green baggage tag above the bathroom door. Sidney laughed a little hysterically and knew his cheeks were turning pink and there was nothing he could do. "Uh, no, thanks."  
  
"Uh, gay much?" Tambellini said and a few guys snickered.  
  
He looked at Marc, frozen.  
  
"Well," Marc said amiably, and leaned in to kiss him on his right cheek, his lips cool on Sidney's burning skin.  
  
"Lame!" Someone yelled and Marc smiled at him, uncaring.  
  
Sidney swallowed hard.  
  
"Mistletoe," Max yelled and everyone looked over to see Max dangling a baggage tag above Burnsie's head, catcalls and whoops going up when Burnsie went for it, grabbing Max's face and mashing their lips together, Max spluttering a laugh.  
  
"Sidney," Marc said, low, and Sidney looked back at him. " _Joyeux Noël._ " And he leaned in to kiss his other cheek, catching the corner of Sidney's mouth. Sidney felt like he might have a heart attack and he clenched his hands into fists at his side, heat zinging along Sidney's nervous system, into his belly and between his legs.  
  
Marc pulled back, his big dark eyes searching Sidney's face.  
  
"Merry Christmas," Sidney said back, rough, and darted forward to kiss his cheek, quick and too hard.  
  
Later that night, Sidney turned it over and over in his head, the feel of Marc's mouth so close to his, the promise of winning gold, the promise of the NHL, his body thrumming with desire and adrenaline and the absolute certainty that they would win.  
  
They did win the next day, and he yelled joyously into Marc's face, pressing his entire body into Marc's pads and knocking their heads together so hard his teeth rattled. Marc was flushed behind his mask, beaming, and he dug his glove into Sidney's side.  
  
Later, most of them finding their way to Getzlaf's room again to celebrate, Max cornered him. "Flower's a romantic, eh? Don't break his heart."  
  
Sidney coughed into his drink, a terrible vodka coke that tasted like jet fuel.  
  
Max grinned. "I know how you Nova Scotians are. Love 'em and then leave 'em for the sea."  
  
"Sure, that sounds like me," Sidney laughed, his head spinning with a half a cup of mostly vodka and for how violently he didn't want to talk about this, even as a joke. Especially as a joke.  
  
Across the room, Marc was playing flip cup with his blue line, wearing a thin white undershirt with a chewed up collar. Sidney could see the muscles of his back work as he chugged a beer from a red plastic cup.  
  
"Romeo was only 16," Max said into Sidney's ear.  
  
"You're gross and old," Sidney said back, without much heat. Marc had flipped his cup upside down and it landed on the edge of the table, tipping dangerously for a half second before settling back. A cheer went up from the guys on his team.  
  
Max slapped his back. "Yeah, but I work it."  
  
The team played good hockey, everyone clicking on the ice and off. And Sidney and Marc got closer to each other and to some of the other guys, Max, of course, and Carts and Richie; sometimes Sidney could see on Jeff's face when he looked at Mike what Sidney had at some point accepted was probably all over his own when he looked at Marc.  
  
He thought, for the first time, he might not be alone, that he could have both: hockey and the secret parts of himself in tandem instead of having to put one on hold for the other.  
  
Sidney helped Marc prank the team, usually as his lookout or his alibi, and they spent what would have been with anyone else an unbearable amount of time crouching behind decorative planters or in between goalie equipment. He used it as an excuse to press close to Marc, to feel the shudder of Marc's silent laughter through the ropy muscles in his back.  
  
The night before the gold medal game against the USA, Marc found Sidney in an elevator, wearing only his boxers and wrapped in a mattress.  
  
 "This is your fault," Sidney informed him, pitching his voice higher to be heard. Marc shushed him, picking at the packing tape that held the mattress edges together.  
  
Marc's retaliation was an ice bucket full of frigid water leaned up against Getzlaf's door, and he wanted to stick close for that one. They watched from around a corner as Getzlaf opened the door and his sneakers -- his only pair, Sidney knew -- took the brunt of the deluge.  
  
"Assholes!" he swore, and let his door shut behind him as he squelched into the hallway. "I know you're both there!"  
  
Marc shoved Sidney and hissed, "Go, go!" He herded Sidney through a service door that was, somehow, unlocked. It led to a staircase, and they took them two at a time, giggling wildly, until they reached the top floor.  
  
The rooftop bar that took up most of the floor was closed, and everything was dark and close, only the service and exit lights still on. Sidney stopped to lean against a wall and catch his breath, eventually sliding down it to meet Marc, who was already on his ass, his hands dangling between his bent knees.  
  
"That was worth it, right?" Marc said breathlessly.  
  
"Ruining Getzlaf's shoes was worth me almost getting caught literally with my pants down."  
  
Marc grinned. "I'm glad you feel the same way I do."  
  
Sidney's breath caught a little because it was so close to the thing they didn't talk about or acknowledge in any way: that it wasn't just Sidney with a crush, that Marc felt it too. It made it real, suddenly, this thing Sidney had no idea might be waiting for him when he got the exception to play for this team.  
  
"I really do," Sidney said, turning to face him, sitting half crosslegged. It was like someone else saying it, easier because there was the conversation they were having on the surface and the conversation they were really having, and this other person who said that was crossing the divide but hadn't gotten anywhere yet.  
  
Marc looked at him hard, searching for something, his normally expressive face inscrutable. His eyes traced a line down Sidney's throat to his chest, exposed by the jagged edge of the ripped-out collar of Marc's undershirt Sidney had borrowed. Sidney swore he could feel it; he did feel it, moments later, when Marc reached out and curled a hand around Sidney's left ankle, slow sweeps of his thumb stroking the thin skin at the prominent knob of bone, exposed above Sidney's low cut socks.  
  
Sidney's breath shuddered out of him, and he dropped his gaze to Marc's mouth -- they were so close, closer than Sidney had thought, that the anticipation felt painful, but Sidney couldn't bring himself to close the gap. They hovered there for a long, agonizing moment.  
  
Somewhere close by, a door banged open and they heard feet on the stairs.  
  
Marc scrambled up, pulling Sidney's arm as he went, hauling them both to their feet. He shoved Sidney towards the emergency exit door to the back stairs.  
  
"Wait!" Sidney yelped, but no alarm sounded when they pushed the door open.  
  
Marc grinned at him, waggling his eyebrows.  
  
They stopped to catch their breath in the stairwell and Marc sagged against him. "We're a good team, eh?"  
  
Sidney felt something inside him expand, something huge and a little scary, immense tenderness and a terrible fear of rejection all at the same time. "Yeah." He tilted his head, rested his temple against Marc's shoulder, and felt it all press against the backs of his teeth.  
  
"We have a big game tomorrow," is what he said instead.  
  
Marc laughed. "Eyes on the prize, eh?"  
  
Sidney looked up at him, his familiar face, the flush on his cheeks and his dark, fucked-up hair, his mouth pulled to one side. "You know it."

 

+

 

Sidney stood next to Marc during the medal ceremony after their heartbreak of a game against USA. It was a bad bounce, Sidney knew, something that happened to everyone, every team; it just wasn't supposed to happen to them. He knew the minute Marc came out of his net to play the puck in that last minute. He could see it go wrong before Marc even touched it. Sidney had never felt more helpless, standing on the other side of the boards, wishing he could fling himself onto the ice and just. Fix it.  
  
But he couldn't. Marc played the puck. It ricocheted off Coburn, popped over Marc's pad and it was over.  
  
He felt every inch the stupid 16-year-old he somehow forgot he was for the past week, wishing he could hold Marc's hand, could put his arm around him, kiss away the deep grooves next to his mouth as Marc looked down at the silver medal around his neck.  
  
He let their hands brush for a moment, shifting his weight from one foot to another.  
  
Marc didn't look at him. Sidney stared at the Canadian flag, feeling like all the air was being crushed from his lungs.  
  
They gave their medals to their coordinator and filed into the lockerroom, where the silence was deafening. Phanuef slammed his gear into his stall deliberately, helmet, chest protector, shin guards, one by one. Two stalls down, Marc was stripping mechanically, his face blank; Coburn stopped and said something, too low for Sidney to hear, and Marc nodded along, not looking at him or anyone.  
  
Coburn sighed and bent down to tap his head against Marc's. Sidney looked down at his skates.  
  
Sidney lingered, like they would during practice, like Marc would look up at him and jerk his head towards the ice and they would go work it off, run it again and again and again until the result was different. When he came out of the shower, Marc was still in his stall, sitting in just his suit pants, staring at his mask.  
  
Sidney sat next to him. "Marc," he said, and his voice broke on it, of course.  
  
Marc shook his head and smiled, thin. "Maybe Coburn's the Next One, eh?" he said, his accent thicker than Sidney had ever heard it.  
  
"Shut up," Sidney said and kissed him.  
  
Marc made a noise against Sidney's mouth and shoved his hands into Sidney's hair, pushing forward to kiss him back. It quickly slipped out of Sidney's control, uncoordinated and desperate.  
  
Sidney opened his mouth and Marc licked inside. Sidney felt like he was on fire, was suddenly aware of the towel that separated them, Marc's bare chest pressed against his, Marc's shoulders gritty with sweat where Sidney had dug in his fingers. He wanted, so bad.  
  
Marc broke away, and hunched backwards from Sidney. "Fuck," he swore. " _Fuck_." He pressed his palms to his eyes, his fingertips clawed into his hairline.  
  
Sidney wanted to speak but could barely find the air to breathe. He was frozen in place, staring at the backs of Marc's hands and dreading the moment Marc pulled them away. He didn't understand why it was happening, but he understood what it was.  
  
"Don't," Marc said behind his hands. "Just--" He sucked in a huge breath, scrubbed his hands back through his hair. He looked at Sidney with those big, sad eyes and Sidney wanted to claw all his skin off.  
  
"Forget it," Sidney said and stood up, clutched his towel where the knot was coming out at his hip. He had known it was going to be hard to be who he was...to be _the_ _way_ he was. He tried to be so careful with himself but he thought—  
  
"I don’t..." Marc said and Sidney waited for what seemed like forever before he realized nothing else was coming.  
  
"Forget it," Sidney said again, the words carving out his insides, "It's fine."  
  
They dressed in silence and walked out into the arena together.  
  
The team flew into Kitchener/Waterloo at what felt like the middle of the night, some weird pocket of space and time that was removed from the rest of the world. By some unspoken agreement, Sidney and Marc still sat next to each other, and Marc's head had tipped onto his shoulder about an hour before they landed.  As the ground came up to meet them Sidney memorized Marc's dark eyelashes against his cheeks, the usually tight bow of his mouth relaxed in sleep.  
  
Marc woke up when they touched down, and for a second, disoriented, he blinked up at Sidney and Sidney could see how easy it would be to lean down to meet him, if things had been different.  
  
Marc didn't smile. He reached up between them to stroke a careful finger along the shell of Sidney's ear, where no one else could see it.  
  
Neither of them breathed, and Sidney saw past Marc's skin for a moment, down into his guts and all the secret parts of him. Then the lights in the cabin flickered on; Sidney let out a shaky breath and Marc took one, slowly levering himself upright.  
  
"Sorry," Marc said, clearing his throat.  
  
"I'm not," Sidney blurted, almost a dare.  
  
Marc studied him quietly. Then, "I'm glad."  
  
Seatbelts clicked open around them and people started standing up, talking, laughing. Burnsie's carry-on had shifted in-flight, and it almost took him out when it fell from the overhead bin. The world seemingly went back to normal, but for Sidney, it felt like nothing would ever be normal again.  
  
He had grown up, somehow, in those two weeks, in the stolen time between playing hockey.  
  
He and Marc got separated at customs, and by the time Sidney got through Marc was nowhere to be found. Sidney's dad was waiting for him at the arrivals gate, having flown home a few hours earlier. He put an arm around his shoulders and hugged him hard into his side, pressing his face to the top of Sidney's head. "Welcome home," he said, and, not for the first time, Sidney was intensely grateful for his dad's unerring ability to tell when Sidney didn't want platitudes. He knew other people saw it as cold, but he knew his dad did it for him, because the pity made him feel worse.  
  
His mom tried to hang the medal in the den, where she'd been carefully creating a timeline of his career so far; they got into a fight, Sidney unable to voice why he didn't want to see it, his mother unable to intuit it, until his dad intervened.  
  
"It's okay, Trin," he said gently, taking the medal from them, untangling the ribbon from their hooked fingers. "You can hang the gold next year."  
  
She looked at his dad for a long moment, then stepped forward and folded Sidney into her arms. He was already taller than her, still not as tall as he hoped he'd get. "Of course," she said. "Next year."  
  
Two weeks later, back at his billet in Rimouski, he got a thick packet in the mail from his parents. Inside was another mailer, this one from Hockey Canada.  
  
It was the Team Canada picture. He blinked down at it: Carts and Richie side by side in the second row, matching stupid smiles; Burnsie in the back, already a giant but still with a round baby face; Marc on one end with his blinding grin, Max next to him looking smug, their thighs pressed together. Sidney was on the other end, sandwiched between the Director and Vice President of Hockey Ops, his own smile big and broad.  
  
None of them had any idea what was going to happen; it was so clear they all thought they were going to win, that they thought they deserved to win, that there was no other option.  
  
He touched Marc's bright, sunny face, let himself have one last stupid moment where he wished, he _wished_.  
  
He put the photo back in the mailer, and the mailer back in the bubble pack his mother had sent it in, and went downstairs to put it in the recycle bin in the kitchen.

 

+

 

Sidney was drafted by the Penguins.  
  
He laughed until he cried when he called Max when he finally got a moment alone on lottery day. Max had teased Sidney mercilessly about the crush he had unwittingly guessed Sidney had on Marc, until one day he stopped. Sidney was grateful to Max's unerring intuition about people in general and Sidney specifically, and he wasn't above using it to his advantage when he needed to complain about stuff other people would call whining.  
  
Max made all the right sympathetic and mock sympathetic noises in all the right places. "Maybe you won't go number one," he said, "would that make you happy?"  
  
Sidney had seen Marc exactly one time between the flight back from Finland, and their first game together as Penguins, and Sidney thought about it all the time, still, obsessing over what he could have done differently. To improve his game, of course.  
  
He had heard from Phillipe Lauze that Marc had been sent back down to Juniors a week before Rimouski played Cape Breton that year. Something about his contract and his bonus but Sidney knew Marc must have been crushed.  
  
Sidney's heart was in his throat the entire game, seeing Marc's familiar stance in the wrong goal. Adrenaline replaced the oxygen in his blood and when he snagged the puck on a breakaway all he could think was how badly he wanted see Marc's murderface during a game, how badly he wanted to beat him.  
  
Marc came out of his net, fast, and poked the puck away. It skittered across center ice and Sidney slammed his stick on the ice before looping around to get his bearings.  
  
Marc swung back into his net and they locked eyes for a moment, Marc with his mouth clamped into a thin line, and Sidney's blood pressure sky-rocketed, fizzing with the same mix of anticipation and competition Marc had perfected in him in Finland.  
  
"Fleury's waiting for you," Lauze said as Sidney unrolled his socks after the game.  
  
"Oh." He had wondered, and now it was here and he just. Couldn't. "I have media," he said and went back to his gear.  
  
Lauze shrugged and swung his bag over his shoulder. "It was a nice stop," he said apologetically.  
  
Sidney laughed and found he almost meant it. "Yeah, yeah it was."  
  
So Sidney was drafted by the Penguins, and everything went wrong immediately. No one was clicking, they lost badly, the vets always seemed mad.  
  
And then Caron got hurt and Marc got called up.  
  
They were flying to Buffalo and would have practice there, to have the full day. So Sidney was already in the seat he had stakes as his when Marc got on.  
  
He stopped in the aisle. "That seat taken?" he said, his mouth all screwed up to one side.  
  
Sidney wanted to say no. But he also didn't at all. He stood up and Marc shoved by and sat down.  
  
"Hey," Marc said, almost sheepishly.  
  
"Hey," Sidney said, his heart in his throat and Marc smiled.  
   
Marc got sent back down, got called back up, Sidney got 102 points, lost the Calder, Marc got a shutout, and after Marc came back up for the last time he threw a roll of tape at Sidney as Sidney unlaced his skates and tipped his head towards the ice.  
  
"Let's go," Marc said, and Sidney did.  
  
It was easy to be Marc's best friend. They got to be together for every girlfriend and boyfriend, every hook-up and break-up, every win and loss and injury and the time Sidney said to him, as they half-heartedly did their shoot-out ritual before what would end up being Marc's shutout against Philly, "Hey, I hope it's not weird, ever," and Marc stood in his net and made a tetching noise and said, "I thought I was making it weird, I didn't mean--" and Sidney said, "No, no, forget it, it was kids, eh?" and Marc said, "I know I'm irresistable," and Sidney bent over laughing until Marc came out of his net and pulled his sweater over his head.  
  
Then it was over, twelve years of it, every triumph and heartbreak and every time Sidney got to tap his helmet against Marc's, all of it ending with Marc sitting down in the stall next to him on locker clean out day, the last time Sidney would ever see him there.  
  
"Was a good run, eh?" Marc said and leaned his head against Sidney's.  
  
"Yeah," Sidney replied. "The best."

 

+

 

They go to dinner in Vegas the night before the game, like it's just another roadie: Sidney, Marc, Tanger, and Perry in the backroom of a little place off the Strip. They have steak and wine and later a cake comes, with a candle in it, and the waitstaff sings happy birthday to Tanger, who tries to wave them off. When they ignore him he laughs his rumbly, crackly laugh until there are tears in his eyes.  
  
Across the table, Marc's mouth curls up on one side, pleased with himself, and he meets Sidney's eyes over the rim of his wine glass, his eyes dark and deep and knowing.  
  
If it weren't for Tanger's beard and the thinned-out skin under Marc's eyes and how tired Sidney feels, it could be years ago.  
  
The streets are still just as active at 10pm as they were during the day. Marc bumps Sidney with his shoulder as they pause at a corner, but just smiles when Sidney raises his eyebrows at him. Tanger and Perry walk ahead, crossing the street with their dark heads bent in conversation.  
  
A roller coaster goes by over their heads and Sidney looks up as it passes. When he looks back, Marc is looking at him with a little smile. Sidney would call it wistful if he were feeling less tender about everything.  
  
"Vegas is fucking weird, eh?" Marc says and Sidney laughs.  
  
"It really is." He pauses. "Do you like it here?"  
  
Marc wrinkles his mouth inward and it quirks to the left, weighing his words. "I think I do," he says finally and a strange mix of relief and hurt churns in Sidney's gut.  
  
"This way," Marc says gently, putting a hand low on Sidney's back to turn him towards a quiet path that snakes behind the hotel they're standing in front of. Above them, the roller coaster goes around again.  
  
"I don't like them better," Marc says.  
  
Sidney, well-versed in Flower's double speak, bristles a little. "But you like it here better."  
  
Marc blows out a huge breath and shrugs a little. "Can you blame me?"  
  
Sidney doesn't answer.  
  
Marc hms a little, looking away from him. "I guess you can."  
  
"I...don't."  
  
Marc rolls his eyes at the sky. "Very convincing." He stops walking and crosses his arms. "I did everything I could to stay as long as they would let me. You must know this."  
  
"I know."  
  
"But you're still mad."  
  
Sidney shrugs. "We all were."  
  
Marc makes a frustrated noise and tugs on his left ear. "Yes, I have to hear about it weekly from Kris, who thinks anyone cares about his feelings." The path they're on has sloped upward, a fence separating them suddenly from the main sidewalk as it curves into an alcove, a strangely deserted spot between a giant pillar and what looks like a Grecian urn holding a massive cactus strung with Christmas lights. Marc turns suddenly and boxes Sidney in, his body, newly padded with muscle built up over the last few weeks as he recovered from his concussion, blocking out the ambient light from the Strip.  
  
He finally looks at Sidney, carefully and deliberately. "Sometimes things don't work out the way we want and you just have to accept it and move on."  
  
Betrayal snaps through Sidney's chest. "You wanted to leave."  
  
Marc, somehow, looks as devastated as Sidney feels. "It was too much for me. Seeing you every day when we thought I was going to be there forever was bearable, but doing it knowing it couldn't last..." He smiles his terrible, self-effacing smile. "I'm too thin-skinned, it turns out."  
  
Sidney couldn't have known, all those years ago, that this is where they would end up and he thinks of that picture of them when they were stupid kids, full of the certainty of destiny. But right from the beginning nothing was the way it should be, the glacier of heartbreak inexorably following him his entire career, eating at him even on his best days.  
  
He worries it's caught up with him this season, eroding the ground directly under his feet, and now he's looking back on the path it's carved out behind him, the landscape completely different from how he remembers it.  
  
"Don't put this on me," Sidney grinds out. "You want to play, just like the rest of us."  
  
"Of course, of course I want to play! I'm not gonna spend the rest of my career sitting on the bench because I--" he violently stops himself, pressing his hands to his face and breathing into his palms.  
  
Sidney looks at the backs of his hands, and his knees feel weak. "Because?"  
  
"I want to play with you," Marc says behind his hands, and lets them fall. "But I can't. So I stayed for you, as long as I could, and then I left for you, too."  
  
This is what Marc is good at, weaving in and out of the truth and something just to the left of it, never quite facing things head on. Sidney had told everyone that he never said goodbye when Marc left because he figured it wasn't really, but the truth is that he never said it because he knew it was, or could be. They talk every week and it seems like every time there are more awkward silences that Sidney's not sure how to fill, more texts when they were supposed to call.  
  
Marc looks at him, his dark eyes shiny and somber and everything feels like it hinges on this moment, on Sidney's ability to keep his footing.  
  
"It's been such a shit season," Sidney says. "You left and nothing's clicking and I miss you so much and--" He shakes his head. "I'm fucking heartbroken."  
  
"Shit. Sidney, "Marc laughs, a little shocky. "Me, too."  
  
Sidney takes a deep breath. "I think I have been for a long time."  
  
Marc grins. "Me, too, you fucking idiot."  
  
" _I'm_ the idiot? Fourteen _fuckin'_ years--" Sidney says, but then Marc's mouth is on his, slow and sweet, his big hand curving over Sidney's cheek.  
  
Sidney makes a noise he's never heard himself make before, and Marc huffs a laugh into his mouth, chasing it with his tongue. He tilts Sidney's head just where he wants it and slips a hand under Sidney's button down, touching freezing fingertips to the small of Sidney's back.  
  
Sidney jerks his head back.  
  
"Sorry," Marc says, his grin saying the opposite.  
  
"You have the worst timing," Sidney grouses weakly, less effective than he wants it to be when he knows his every emotion is written all over his stupid fucking face.  
  
"When should I have done it?" Marc says, both teasing and not. "When you were sixteen? When you were my teammate? My captain? When we won the Cup?" He swallows. "Or lost it. You wanna be my reward or my consolation, Sid?"  
  
 Sidney blinks at him. "You thought..." It's been the deepest valley in their relationship, the one Sidney never visited if he could help it, the shame still so intense even after all this time. And suddenly he's looking at it from the other side of the mountain, and it looks completely different. "You thought it was pity? All this time?"  
  
Marc ducks his head a little, sheepishly. "Not all the time. In my low moments, maybe."  
  
"But then?"  
  
"Then..." Marc quirks his mouth to the side. "I was angry at myself, then. I didn't deserve whatever you were offering, even if it was pity."  
  
"You really are a fucking idiot," Sidney says, puts his hand on Marc's face to thumb the newly bare spot under Marc's lower lip before leaning in to kiss him again, then again, and Marc backs him up into the alcove, nudging Sidney's thighs apart so he can slot one of his own between them and press his long, hard body against Sidney's from chest to knee.  
  
They kiss until Sidney's burning up inside, until Marc breaks away to put his forehead against Sidney's temple. "Sidney," he breathes and Sidney slides his arms around him.  
  
"Come on," Sidney says, feeling Marc's ribs expand with his breath, "Walk me back."  
  
They walk slowly, their arms brushing. Sidney pushes his hands into his pockets as his heart squeezes tight. "I'm sorry we waited so long."  
  
Marc bumps into him a little. "Are you? Would you really do anything different if you could?"  
  
Sidney thinks about it, really thinks. There are times he maybe wishes he had said something when he didn't, or didn't say something when he did; times where he might have been braver, or could have admitted he didn't have all the answers. But. "No, I don't think so."  
  
Marc smiles, presses his entire body along Sidney's side as they walk. "No, me, neither."  
  
They reach the side entrance of the hotel, where Sid's keycard will let him into a service door. He rubs the back of his neck, feeling like a kid again, an almost addictive anxiety twisting up his insides.  
  
Marc looks at him for a long moment, the same way he's looked at him since they met, his secret self right there for Sidney and Sidney alone. He carefully takes Sidney's head in his hands, leaning in to kiss first one cheek, then the other, slow and deliberate, lighting up Sidney's nerve-endings. "See you on the ice," he says, his voice pitched lower than usual.  
  
"I'm not gonna go easy on you," Sidney says back, breathlessly.  
  
"No," Marc says, "I hope not."  
  
"You gonna say goodbye this time?"  
  
Marc laughs, a real belly laugh. He steps back and for a moment looks like he's going to say something else. But in the end he just smiles and gives a little wave, turning as a group of girls in short, glittery dresses and sashes cut between them, and Sidney loses him in the crowd.  
  
Sidney cuts through the casino instead of using the lobby entrance and sure enough, there's Phil, Geno, and Reaves, by themselves at a low-stakes blackjack table. Phil sees him first and shrugs expansively, a plastic cup of what Sid hopes is water in his hand.  
  
Sidney rolls his eyes and comes to hover over Geno's shoulder. Geno twists his upper body and hooks his elbow low around Sidney's hips, tugging him into Geno's side. "In or out, Sid."  
  
"None of us should be in," Sidney says and Reaves snickers and taps his fingers on the table. The dealer gives him another card and he slides his cards under his chips.  
  
"Don't worry, Cap, we all got our Vegas Flu booster shots."  
  
Phil smirks. "Sid thinks he can game the system. Always has."  
  
"So?" Sidney says without heat, and Phil chuckles and nudges him with a companionable elbow in his ribs.  
  
Geno hm's and taps for a card, then another.  
  
Phil goes for three, grumbling as he goes bust, and Geno tilts his head toward Sidney. "Flower okay?"  
  
Sidney nods, watching Reaves toast Phil with his own water, a sweaty heat prickling over the back of his neck. Geno had met Flower for lunch after practice -- it never occurred to him what they might have talked about, their relationship always sort of secretive by their own design. "Yeah, it was good. He's good. He's...you know."  
  
Geno looks at him shrewdly. " _You_ okay?"  
  
Sidney huffs out a little laugh. "Yeah. Don't I seem okay?"  
  
Geno tips his head against Sidney, a brief nudge of his temple against the dip of Sidney's collabone. "Maybe not yet."  
  
Sidney blinks against a hot sting on the backs of his eyes and squeezes Geno's shoulder. "No, maybe not. Soon, I think."  
  
The dealer hits 17, flips one more card. "Bust," he says. Reaves hoots as he gets chips pushed across the table, but Geno redirects his to the mat in front of Sidney.  
  
"One more round, come," he says, nodding at the table.  
  
Sidney hesitates, quickly weighing the universal karma of gambling the day before a game; he's not sure which scale to put which in, though, when he's already made out with the opposing team's goalie and all but confessed that he's been in love with him for over a decade.  
  
His phone buzzes in his pocket.  
  
It's Marc. **Christmas? I have a guest room**.  
  
Then: **Also a really big bed**.  
  
Sidney reads the words over deliberately three times, letting them really sink in. He bites his lower lip. **Yes**.  
  
Geno is looking at him with a smirk that's knowing and tender all at the same time and finally Sidney gives up, puts his phone in his pocket and slides onto the stool.  
  
"Deal me in."

 

+

 

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone wants to cry, please look at [Flower](https://www.hockeycanada.ca/en-ca/team-canada/men/junior/2004/fleury) and [Sid's](https://www.hockeycanada.ca/en-ca/team-canada/men/junior/2004/crosby) bios for the 2004 WJ Team Canada roster. 
> 
> And for further crying purposes, please have these two quotes from Sid, _in 2015_ , about that game:
> 
> "I don't remember it that well. We had a number of chances in the third, but mine specifically, you'd have to refresh my memory on exactly what it was. I probably chose to forget it. It's probably better that way."
> 
> "A couple of guys jab [Fleury] once in a while about it. And being on that [Canada] team and feeling what we felt after the game, we choose not to really think of that one a whole lot, but I'm sure that's stuff for both of us that we've learned from and has probably made us better in the long run; so just something we don't like to bring up too often."
> 
> And, finally, title from [Glacier, by John Grant](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wob2_k4nUfE)


End file.
